Pigeons Need Love, Too
by I Suffer From Hubris
Summary: Simon was feeling neglected and lonely. He flopped down on an occupied park bench, but didn't bother to look closely at the other occupant. From his cursory, sidelong glance, he knew it was a small old woman. "Do you consider yourself a pigeon? 'Cause I think you need some lovin' too, served to you from a hot plate of Simon." T for insinuations about Simon and Imogen.


**Pigeons Need Love, Too**

By: I Suffer From Hubris

Simon was feeling neglected and lonely. He'd been having a rad makeout session with an obnoxious ginger named Clary, then she told him that she had to change, then Simon fell asleep, and the next thing he knew, that same Clary had _ditched_ him, for crying out loud! It would have been _one thing_ to refuse Simon the making out in the first place, but that… that… redheaded _tease_ had completely led him on and then deserted him in his time of need.

Stupid Clary. Who needed girls anyway? Not Simon. Simon had _plenty_ of options. Male options. Like Eric, for example. He'd robbed Simon of his innocence a year before (albeit consensually) and since then, the two adolescents had had a special "bond" that just couldn't be broken.

But Simon didn't want man-love tonight. Oh, no. Thanks to that Clary thing, Simon had been all geared up for _himself_ to be the dominant one tonight instead of the way it usually went, but it seemed like Fate just wasn't agreeing with him.

Stupid Fate. Who needed Fate anyway? Not Simon.

As if in a daze, he found himself trudging in the pre-dawn through a park. Dew was glinting off the grass, all shiny and wonderful on the green surface… _Oooh, shiny_… Then he realized that the grass was made up of tons of little emerald spikes, all nice and pointy…

You see, Simon _liked_ shiny things, but he had a _fetish_ for pointy things. It's what attracted him to Clary. She had the sharpest fingernails he'd ever seen on _anyone_. Seriously, it's like she had little pencils instead of fingers.

After gazing longingly at the pointy grass for a little while, Simon lumbered forward on his destination-less journey.

A good hour or so passed, and Simon grew tired. His legs ached.

Stupid legs. Who needed legs anyway? Not… Oh, whatever.

He flopped down on an occupied park bench, but didn't bother to look closely at the other occupant. From his cursory, sidelong glance, he knew it was a small old woman, but Simon didn't care to pay any more attention.

Instead, he studied the pigeons fluttering around the bench in the brightening dawn. They were so carefree and peaceful leaping and flying about like that… Simon wanted wings…

Whoa! Who knew that pigeons had _pointy beaks?_ Awesome!

"I think I've just found my new favorite animal," Simon cooed to a small huddle of birds. "You pigeons are so cute! You know, some people call you 'rats with wings', but I don't think you're rats. I would know; I've been a rat. Anyway, I think you guys are special and majestic and wonderful."

He heard a high-pitched, annoying titter of a chuckle from beside him, and Simon remembered he had company. Shamefaced, he turned to face the old woman.

And was surprised.

She was old, that much was certain, and had a distinctly pinched-looking face. Did Simon smell bad or something? A deep sniff of his arm said otherwise (he still smelled like the sweet aroma of his shampoo, which was scented "Black-Raspberry Okra Pancake Frittata Delight"). No, her face must have looked like that normally, the poor old woman. But her eyes… Oh, her eyes…

If eyes could look pointy, this woman had them.

They were gray and like ice shards, colorless yet deep like the ocean. They regarded Simon with badly-disguised amusement, and equally gray hair fell in a single, unbroken sheet to her shoulders. No hair was out of place. This woman… she almost looked like a pigeon come to life.

Before Simon lost control of himself, he abruptly rotated to once again face the birds. He dug in his pocket for something to feed them, only resurfacing with a half-eaten Strawberry-Melon-Pecan PopTart. Well, it was better than nothing. "Here, little birdies," Simon soothingly whispered, tossing them itty bitty chunks of his PopTart.

And, surprisingly enough, the birds ate the bits.

Simon laughed softly and reached down to pet one, but it skittered away.

Stupid bird.

"You, _ttttchiiiiiiiiild, _are _very_ _ammmm-MOOO-zeeng_," the old woman said in a strange, strangled-sounding accent.

Simon faced her once again, but in surprise that she had spoken in a voice so similar to that he would have imagined for the birds he just helped to feed. Simon said in a wounded tone, "Hey, pigeons need love too."

"_Tha-hat _they _doooooo_," she nodded, hair rippling.

"What kind of accent is that?" Simon burst out, feeling a bit ashamed once it was spoken. What kind of a question to ask was that?

She smiled, or rather, the corners of her tight lips went up about a millimeter. "I _yam_ _wahhht_ you call _four-RINN_."

That made Simon think of Clary's obsession with foreign people.

Stupid Clary.

"What kind of foreign?" questioned Simon, growing a bit interested.

"Noooo _con-TREE _you know AH-bow-woot." The way she was speaking… It sounded like a much more extreme version of the Shadowhunters' slight accents!

Simon looked around to make sure the coast was clear before leaning in close to the woman and whispering, "Are you from Idris?"

Her eyes bugged. "_Yay-HESSS_. How _eez_ _eet_ dat you know AH-bow-woot _ee-DREESE_?"

Simon smiled, pleased with himself. "I just do. Are you a Shadowhunter?"

"_Yay-HESSS_. You are _not_ or you _woo-DENT _speak of zem so _eee-zee-LEE_."

This woman's accent… It sounded like a bizarre mixture of Swedish, French, several Asian languages, and something else. It was weird… but captivating. Simon wanted to hear her say more words.

Simon never really fancied himself the pickup-line type, but he put on his best bedroom eyes for this fascinating old Shadowhunting woman and said, "Do you consider yourself a pigeon? 'Cause I think you need some lovin' too, served to you from a hot plate of Simon."

She actually giggled, a bizarre static sound that sounded like the radio when you changed stations, and then said with one quirked, colorless eyebrow, "Are _you _sigh-MOON?"

And the way she said his name… Sigh-MOON…

"Yes. I am Simon. Your name is, you lovely pigeon?"

She static-giggled again and said, "_You_ cahn call _MEE_ Imogen."

Imogen.

And that short conversation led to Simon taking her arm. The two, who may have passed for a young man escorting his elderly grandmother, were very occupied for the next few hours.

And let's just say that Simon's bedroom wasn't empty.

Because _this_ afternoon, those pigeons known as Simon Lewis and Imogen Herondale were getting some much-needed lovin'. From each other.

**The** -Canon, but just left out of the book- **End**


End file.
